


And They Call Her Cinderella

by AlekaJordan (pontmergay)



Series: And... Series [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:03:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pontmergay/pseuds/AlekaJordan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They met later that day at a café in town. It was fate, or destiny, or maybe even kismet. What you call it doesn't really matter. What does matter is that the two men did, in fact, meet.</p><p>The café was crowded and loud, but that bothered neither one of the men. They weren't planning on staying. They had only stopped by to get a coffee, and maybe a muffin (in the larger of the two's case, anyways; he'd forgotten to eat that morning), and then be on their not-so merry ways.</p><p>It was Eames who made first contact. He recognized the smaller, dark-haired man who was standing in front of him in line from his previous appointment. After the man (who seemed hardly older than a boy) had turned around after getting his coffee, Eames made to step forward and accidentally ("accidentally" my left foot; this was absolutely not an accident) ran into the man. He apologized, but only after sticking a small sheet of paper with his phone number (you never know when such a paper would come in handy) into the man's jacket pocket. The man nodded in acknowledgment and then left the café.</p><p>Eames smiled to himself and ordered his coffee, patiently (or rather very impatiently) waiting for the man to call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue.

**Thursday, October 25, 2012.**  
 **6:27 p.m.**  
  
The man's name was Arthur.  
  
When he arrived at his apartment that night from a long day avoiding calls from his parents, he reached into his left pocket to not only find his keys (which he'd been looking for in the first place) but also a tiny scrap of paper with a phone number written on it. He wondered, only for a moment, how the paper had gotten into his pocket and who had put it there.  
  
Arthur had more important things on his mind.  
  
He walked into the apartment and laid his jacket over the back of one of the dining room chairs and placed the paper on the table in front of it. He didn't even give it a second glance before walking over to the refrigerator and taking out the bottle of red wine he'd stashed in there a few days previously. He left the kitchen.  
  
In his living room, Arthur has a bookshelf that doesn't have a single book on it.  
  
From the bookshelf he took a small jewelry box. He sat down on the couch with it in his lap, the wine cradled in his left arm. He wiped the dust that the box had been collecting for the past year from it, letting it mix with the air and fall to the wood-paneled floor. He would clean it up the next morning with Clorox disinfectant wipes while nursing a small hangover. He opened the box.  
  
The box on Arthur's thighs contained only one piece of jewelry.  
  
He took the heart-shaped locket from the red velvet lining of the box and held it carefully in his hand. It was almost as if he was afraid he might drop it, and if he dropped it the world would end.  
  
The locket belonged to Annabeth.  
  
When he was 18 years old, he had made a promise to himself to never bring up the subject of the girl again. To himself or anyone else. The week of the 25th of October was the only time he even allowed himself to think about her. It was just too painful.  
  
In three weeks, two days, five hours, and nine minutes, Arthur was going to be asked about Annabeth by a man he loved but hardly knew, and he was going to tell him her story.


	2. One.

**Friday, October 26, 2012.**  
7:14 p.m.  
  
"Hello, darling," the person said. "I've been waiting."  
  
Arthur's eyes widened at the voice on the other line. It was a man. He had no problem with it being male and the man's accent ( _English_ , he thought) interested him. It was the audacity and confidence that got him. He cleared his throat and answered. "Hello. Who is this?"  
  
The man chuckled, deep in his throat. "Shouldn't I be the one asking that? You called me."  
  
"Yes, but _you_ stuck your number in my jacket."  
  
"Touché." Arthur could hear the smile in the man's voice. "My name is Eames."  
  
Arthur nodded, rolling the name ("Eames," he would later learn, was not the man's true name, but his surname; his Christian name would be whispered into Arthur's ear in a few week's time while the two men laid on his bed) around his mouth. "And I'm Arthur."  
  
"Arthur," Eames repeated, his murmur almost a caress. "Lovely. It suits you."  
  
Instead of asking the burning question of how Eames could possibly know that Arthur's name "suited him," (he had been in the café for maybe 15 minutes, tops; that wasn't much of a chance to get a good look at someone, was it?) Arthur said, "You're the man from the café." It wasn't a question. It could never be a question. Of course Eames was the man from the café. Arthur had hardly seen another living soul the entire day, let alone gotten close enough for someone else to shove their phone number in the pocket of his jacket.  
  
"Guilty," Eames said, that smile even more apparent in his voice. "Shall we go to dinner now, love?"  
  
"Excuse me?" Arthur nearly choked on the words as they came out.  
  
Eames laughed. "It's only proper, right? I gave you my number, you called me, and now we go on a date. I do believe that's how things are supposed to happen, Arthur."  
  
A slight flush crawled it's way from Arthur's neck to his ears. He couldn't possibly go out with this man. For all he knew, Eames was a serial murderer or a rapist. And besides, Arthur had missed the last two days of school. He had papers and tests to grade and get back to his students on Monday. It didn't matter how intrigued by Eames he had become over the course of their conversation (Eames was just  _so_ uninhibited). It didn't matter that Eames had been able to instill in Arthur something he had never felt before (that feeling was, for the record, longing). It didn't matter that Arthur needed a bit of excitement in his life (he was a high school history teacher; need I say more?). He had too much to do and there were too many risks in going on a…date with the man.  
  
After a few moments of silence (on Arthur's part that is, being as Eames was making ticking noises as if he were counting down to the minute he would hang up the phone), Arthur made his reply.  
  
"Alright," he said.


	3. Two.

**Friday, October 26, 2012**  
8:09 p.m.  
  
Eames grinned to himself as he pulled up to the apartment building. He never doubted that he would be able to get the man--Arthur--(Eames had said the name aloud multiple times on the drive over. He just couldn't get over the way it sounded when he said it out loud) to go out with him. He was simply unable to believe how easy it had been.  
  
He parked along the side of the road (in a  _No Parking Zone_ , which Arthur would point out when he got into the car and Eames would reply to with "You really are a bore, love. You notice I  _didn't_  get a ticket, don't you?") and made his way up to the building. He climbed the front stairs, taking them two at a time.  
  
Once Eames reached the doors he turned to the panel of buttons and pressed the one with 21B  _Arthur_  beside it. He waited a few moments with no response, then pressed it again.  
  
"Sorry," came a voice from a speaker to the right of the panel. "Come up. Mine is the first apartment on the second floor, to your right."  
  
A buzz sounded and then a click, and Eames opened the door (the handle of which he'd had his hand on since he pressed Arthur's button the first time). This time he walked up the stairs, his hands sliding up the hand-rails as he went. He couldn't help but smile to himself at the thought of seeing Arthur again in only a few moments' time.  
  
He reached the second floor and turned to his right to face apartment number 21B.  
  
Eames stood in front of the door, grinning a small grin. He wondered if he'd get to see the inside of Arthur's apartment that night (he would) and asked himself how long it was appropriate to stay after a first date (Eames would slip out of the apartment at 4:27 the next morning).  
  
He knocked on the door, which was immediately opened by Arthur.  
  
Arthur was wearing a dark green coat and a black scarf, with black dress pants and dress shoes. Eames almost felt under dressed.  _Almost_. He opened his mouth to ask if he could come in, but Arthur quickly reached over to flip off a light switch, patted the pocket of his coat to make sure he had his keys (he did), and shut his door.  
  
"Hello," Arthur said once the door was securely shut behind him. He looked up at Eames.  
  
Eames smiled. "Hello, darling." He held his arms out toward the staircase, allowing Arthur to go ahead of him like the gentleman he pretended to be on dates such as this one. "I hope you don't mind that I've already chosen where we're going."  
  
Arthur looked back at him over his shoulder. "Not at all," he said.  
  
Eames' hand was on the small of Arthur's back as the two walked through the front doors and down the front steps. That small grin was still on his face (it wouldn't leave his face for awhile, not until 10:39 p.m. while he was standing in front of the bookshelf in Arthur's living room with a cup of coffee in his hand), and though it bothered Arthur a tiny bit (he couldn't tell you why, and neither could I), it also made his heart beat a little faster.


	4. Three.

**Friday, October 26, 2012**  
 **8:32 p.m.**  
  
"Really?" Arthur asked. His eyebrows arched high over his dark eyes as he looked at the café.  
  
Eames nodded. "Yes, really. Where better to have our  _first_  date than where we  _first_  met?" He smiled again, only this one was sweet (the grin that usually graced Eames' features was either arrogant or boastful, or the one his mum used to call his "come hither" grin).  
  
Arthur shook his head, allowing himself a smile. He walked ahead of Eames into the café and took a seat at his normal table.  
  
Eames stood across from him, not yet sitting down. "What would you like, darling?" he asked.  
  
Arthur had removed his scarf and coat and placed them over the back of his chair to reveal a light grey button up. Eames could see the tiniest bit of a gold chain poking out from behind the color of Arthur's shirt, but as soon as the man noticed Eames' stare, he pushed the chain under the fabric and out of sight (it was far too soon for that topic of conversation).  
  
"Just tea, please. If that's all right." He began to reach around to grab the wallet from his pocket, but Eames had already started walking towards the counter (Eames always paid.  _Always_ ).  
  
The short car ride to the cafe and the few moments he'd been seated at the table had done little to calm Arthur's nerves. Eames was a character. He spoke loudly (he never raised his voice) and encroached on Arthur's space (he never touched Arthur or his things without gaining some sort of permission). Arthur hardly knew how to react to him.  
  
When Eames arrived back at the table he placed Arthur's cup of tea in front of him and put just a mug of coffee in front of himself. In response to Arthur's questioning look he said only, "I had a large dinner." He took a large gulp of the (scalding hot, though he wouldn't admit to Arthur that it burnt his tongue and throat on the way down) coffee, then spoke again. "Tell me about yourself, Arthur."  
  
Arthur almost choked on his tea. He'd known it was coming (of course it was coming, this was a date) but he hoped it could have been put off, that maybe he could have asked Eames about himself first. "Um," he started, "I'm a history teacher."  
  
"A teacher?" Eames repeated, a glint in his eyes that made Arthur feel quite uneasy (as it rightly should have; that glint was what would set everything in motion for the two). "I like that."


	5. Four.

**Friday, October 26, 2012**  
 **8:32 p.m.**  
  
"Really?" Arthur asked. His eyebrows arched high over his dark eyes as he looked at the café.  
  
Eames nodded. "Yes, really. Where better to have our  _first_  date than where we  _first_  met?" He smiled again, only this one was sweet (the grin that usually graced Eames' features was either arrogant or boastful, or the one his mum used to call his "come hither" grin).  
  
Arthur shook his head, allowing himself a smile. He walked ahead of Eames into the café and took a seat at his normal table.  
  
Eames stood across from him, not yet sitting down. "What would you like, darling?" he asked.  
  
Arthur had removed his scarf and coat and placed them over the back of his chair to reveal a light grey button up. Eames could see the tiniest bit of a gold chain poking out from behind the color of Arthur's shirt, but as soon as the man noticed Eames' stare, he pushed the chain under the fabric and out of sight (it was far too soon for that topic of conversation).  
  
"Just tea, please. If that's all right." He began to reach around to grab the wallet from his pocket, but Eames had already started walking towards the counter (Eames always paid.  _Always_ ).  
  
The short car ride to the cafe and the few moments he'd been seated at the table had done little to calm Arthur's nerves. Eames was a character. He spoke loudly (he never raised his voice) and encroached on Arthur's space (he never touched Arthur or his things without gaining some sort of permission). Arthur hardly knew how to react to him.  
  
When Eames arrived back at the table he placed Arthur's cup of tea in front of him and put just a mug of coffee in front of himself. In response to Arthur's questioning look he said only, "I had a large dinner." He took a large gulp of the (scalding hot, though he wouldn't admit to Arthur that it burnt his tongue and throat on the way down) coffee, then spoke again. "Tell me about yourself, Arthur."  
  
Arthur almost choked on his tea. He'd known it was coming (of course it was coming, this was a date) but he hoped it could have been put off, that maybe he could have asked Eames about himself first. "Um," he started, "I'm a history teacher."  
  
"A teacher?" Eames repeated, a glint in his eyes that made Arthur feel quite uneasy (as it rightly should have; that glint was what would set everything in motion for the two). "I like that."


	6. Five.

**Friday, October 26, 2012**  
 **9:54 p.m.**  
  
Arthur and Eames stood outside of Arthur's apartment door. They hadn't said anything in quite some time (just about two-and-a-half minutes), and Arthur had begun to fiddle with his keys. Normally this would annoy Eames, but (for some odd reason that he couldn't yet understand) he found it quite endearing when Arthur did it. It made him seem like the boy his appearances made him look.  
  
"Well," Arthur began.  
  
Eames knew where his words would lead if he didn't interrupt him, and so he did just that. "May I come in?" He nodded his head at the closed door before them.  
  
Arthur seemed taken aback at the notion, but had no reason to not let Eames in. Instead of replying, he simply turned around and unlocked the door. He walked into the apartment and flicked on the light, but didn't hear Eames' footsteps following behind him. He turned back with a raised eyebrow.  
  
"You never gave me an answer, love," Eames said quietly, a slight smile turning up the corners of his mouth.  
  
"Come in," Arthur said. His voice was rather stern, and Eames couldn't help but to let out a bark of a laugh.  
  
Eames stepped forward, over the threshold and into Arthur's apartment (Arthur was immediately nervous that Eames would find some fault in his quaint living quarters, but he tried to hide it behind a small smile). Eames looked around, at the kitchen with its small dining table and chairs and the bare front of the refrigerator, and at the living room with its old furniture and its scantily covered walls (the only things covering Arthur's living room walls were a few paintings he'd snagged copies of from a sale at the museum the previous year), and was satisfied.  
  
Arthur took his coat off and put it over the back of a dining chair. He held out his hand for Eames' own coat and closed his fingers around the fabric when the man handed the article to him. He placed it on the chair beside his. "Would you like anything to drink?" he asked, not looking at Eames as he moved farther into the kitchen.  
  
"Coffee would be lovely," Eames said, and he walked over to lean against the counter next to where Arthur stood. He watched Arthur as he poured the coffee grounds and water into the machine, and made a sound of approval when the coffee started trickling into the coffee pot.  
  
Once the pot was full enough, Arthur slid it from the machine and filled a mug that had been sitting beside it. He turned to Eames and put the cup into his waiting hands; their fingers almost touched.  _Almost_.  
  
Eames took a small sip (not wanting to burn himself yet again) and gave a smile to Arthur. He then turned around, and walked into the living room, Arthur following closely behind. He walked around the room, staring intently at the paintings and looking through Arthur's miniscule CD collection, while he sipped at the bitter liquid in his cup.  
  
Arthur sat down on the couch and watched Eames' observations with a trained eye.  
  
Finally, Eames came to a halt in front of bookcase that was bare of books. He stared over its contents for awhile (a multitude of pictures, some stuffed animals, a jewelry box, a trophy), before turning to ask Arthur a question (who was the girl in all of the pictures?), but when he saw the look on the young man's face, one of slight pain and a small bit of terror, he changed the words. "Is this mahogany?"


End file.
